


Spectrum

by astersandstuffs



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, BokuAka Week, Chapter #1, Chapter #2, Chapter #3, Fairy Tale Elements, M/M, Magic, Magical Realism, One Shot Collection, Royalty, Steampunk, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-01 17:13:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8631922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astersandstuffs/pseuds/astersandstuffs
Summary: Bokuto makes a lot of rain.
  Keiji doesn’t mind, really.
Scenarios featuring Akaashi, Bokuto, and maybe a bit of magic.-#2: "Commander Akaashi, this is the painter, Bokuto Koutarou."#3: Bankrupt watchmaker Bokuto stumbles upon one weary time-traveling Akaashi.





	1. Rain, Coffee Shop, and Sleepover

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to [Jazz](http://archiveofourown.org/users/indigostardust) and [Dawn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/eccentrick) for checking this over and keeping me motivated. Love you guys~!

When Keiji enters the 2nd Gymnasium for his first afternoon practice as a second-year he has to stop and blink for a moment because, yes, it’s raining in the gym _again_.

It’s more of a drizzle, this time, so faint that he can’t really make out the droplets. But it’s definitely raining and not from a leak in the roof, with how the water is already collecting into puddles and eager to douse Keiji’s sneakers. Meanwhile, the weather outside is so clear and sunny it hurts for Keiji to even look up at the sky.

Keiji is greeted to the sight of Sarukui slipping on his run-up and crashing into Konoha, who flails around before finally managing to steady them both by clutching at the net, and, really, why do they still try to play volleyball in this condition? It’s a miracle that none of them has had any injuries yet.

It _is_ a probability and statistical miracle, though, and a persistent one at that. A full year and counting and aside from soaked jerseys (well, and everything else), occasional slips (and the inexplicable streak of recovery maneuvers), and getting water on their eyes and up their noses, there has not been any collateral damage yet. And _no one_ bats an eye.

It somewhat scares Keiji more than the fact that it’s a meteorological impossibility in the first place.

Taking a deep breath, accepting the reality that this year is going to be as rainy as the last, he makes his way further into the gym.

It’s not that bad, this type of light rainfall. It’s gentle and tickles his skin, and the sound of it pattering on the parquet floor is sort of calming. A cheerful and soft chaos, if that makes any sense.

Keiji spots Bokuto on the sideline giving his captain-y pep talk to the first-years, who all seem very distracted, either by the phenomenal event going on around them or the exuberant way Bokuto is talking and gesticulating. They aren’t paying much attention, nonetheless.

“Bokuto-san,” Keiji says as he approaches him. Some of the newcomers take in Keiji’s appearance with wide eyes, but Bokuto isn’t fazed in the slightest.

“Akaaaashi!” He grins, as cheery as the rain, and slings an arm around Keiji’s shoulders. It stiffens immediately, though; his glee falters a bit, and there’s a stutter in the cadence of rainfall. But Keiji keeps his stance loose and relaxed, lets Bokuto know that it’s okay, and soon the grin and the drizzle are back on full-force.

“Guys!” Bokuto’s voice booms. “This is our vice-captain here. Akaashi Keiji.”

* * * **  
**

Keiji likes coffee shops best in the morning within those first few precious hours after they flip the sign to _Open_. It’s tranquil there, only him and a few other stranglers also too weary to make much conversation, and the drone of the espresso machine and other background noises help him focus on writing his thesis. (Sometimes he thinks he’s the only one deranged enough to write a _freaking thesis_ at 6 a.m.)

Still, he goes there even when the sun has passed its peak, because while it’s bustling, his favorite seat always taken, chatter and small talks bouncing off all corners, the musky smell of coffee is also stronger. And that’s what Keiji really needs—somewhere he can retreat to when everything else the world has to offer is too overwhelming.

Like today, for example. His classes hadn’t gone so well; two of the professors seemed to have had a terrible weekend and Keiji could smell it in their strained voices and stiff, jerky movements. It had been sharp and spicy and it was all Keiji could do to not let the reflexive tears fall. Not to mention that it’s nearing finals and the majority of the student body is silently panicking, exuding even more distasteful odors.

But coffee…coffee is a blessing. It’s the only normal thing Keiji can still smell, and, thankfully, its aroma happens to be one that he so thoroughly enjoys.

But Keiji’s longing for a safe haven can’t change the fact that, with the dreaded week on the horizon, all the coffee shops close by are chock full of desperate campus residents, students and professors alike, looking as dead as Keiji himself feels.

Keiji can’t stand the dank, musty smell any longer, so he takes a short bus ride to the outer edge of the city, and after meandering through the semi-unfamiliar streets for a while he finds one that would do.

Its walls are chalkboard gray with vivid scribbles and drawings of chalk, accented with wooden beams and yellow-gold trinkets. The tables are made of smooth, polished wood, and surrounding them are cushions of the same color scheme as the interior, all of which look so comfy to Keiji’s spent mind that he fears he wouldn’t be able to snap himself awake if he sits there and inadvertently dozes off a bit.

Even so, he walks up to the counter to order a cup of black coffee. Stronger brew also means stronger scent, and since the only other patrons there are a couple passive-aggressively projecting such intense sexual tension to do anything other than glare at the menu, Keiji will have to wring every whiff of that coffee smell himself. (As much as his wallet allows, anyway.)

Lack of business activity has the cashier napping, his head pillowed on his folded arms. There’s a fair amount of drool pooling beside his gaping mouth, and despite the initial wild impression his spiked, multicolored hair gives him, he looks kind of endearing, sleeping like that.

And the air around him is pleasant, too. Like damp earth and crisp woodland grass, honeysuckle and cedar, and gushing river water of an untamed forest.

Keiji clears his dry throat and has to say, _Excuse me_ , a few times before the person finally wakes up. He blinks his bleary eyes at Keiji (a stunningly deep amber, Keiji notes) and smiles, dopey. “Dude,” he drawls, “you’re _so hot_. This is the best dream _ever_.”

In the seconds that Keiji stands stoic still as he processes the unforeseen reply, he gets to watch the man’s eyes slowly widen and his features go slack with what may be abject horror. He starts to say something else but is suddenly yanked down and out of sight. There’s a loud _thump_ and a lot of rustling and hissing before a young woman appears in his place.

“Hi there!” she says, somewhat forcing a bit of jovial lilt to her raspy voice. Her sandy-brown hair is a tousled mess and there are impressions of blanket creases on her cheeks. “I’m sorry for our guy; he’s slow on the uptake. What can I get you?”

Past the whiny _Kaoriii_ coming from beyond the counter, Keiji mumbles out his order. It’s obvious how happy she is at the simplicity of it.

“Coming right up.” She suppresses a yawn. “Bokuto Koutarou, keep your stupidity in check while I’m gone. Also, apologize to the poor customer.” Another yawn, a turn around the corner, and she’s gone.

Bokuto clambers up to his feet, groaning like he’s just been wrestled down by a heavyweight champion. But when he spots Keiji still lingering there that grin is back, if with a hint of modest embarrassment.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he says. “But honest, though. You’re really pretty.”

Under Keiji’s blank stare Bokuto starts to fidget, his shoulders drooping. He looks a little too anxious so Keiji tries a neutral, “Right. Um, I’m flattered. Thank you.”

Truth be told, this Bokuto isn’t someone Keiji would simply pass by under certain, more specific circumstances. He has a nice face, and his figure isn’t something to scoff at if those bulky arms have anything to indicate.

And the fragrance is a nice addition.

“I’ll wait at the table,” Keiji hurries out when it seems that Bokuto wants to say more. He puts the fallen face behind him as he strides toward the farthest booth by the window.

He settles down and takes out his laptop, sifting through the books he’d borrowed from the campus library as he waits for it to boot up; he sets two out of five down on the table. When everything is finished loading, he cracks his knuckles, mentally preps himself for the next grueling hours, and types away.

Three additional pages of a nonsensical draft later, there’s a blissful waft of coffee, and Keiji glances up as Bokuto puts a steaming hot cup of it in front of Keiji.

His grin is still wide enough to sink his dimples all the way in. Bokuto is a bit jittery as he makes his way back to the counter, and when Keiji inspects his gift he finds a possible reason why: a string of numbers is scrawled on the side of Keiji’s cup.

The black ink is slightly smudged (from a clammy hand, judging by the slant of the blur), and the writing becomes wobblier as it goes on, but the efforts put into it is evident. There’s also a comical drawing of a tiny owl, the mascot of the shop. It’s quite detailed and cute.

The coffee tastes great, but the longer Keiji relishes its scent the more distinct the other ones are: damp earth and crisp woodland grass, honeysuckle and cedar, and gushing river water of an untamed forest.

Feeling the corners of his lips reflexively twitch the slightest bit upward, Keiji keeps the cup closer than unsual, breathes in with just a bit less wariness. He stays and works on his thesis there, until the sky is too dark and the norm of time has him walking away from the place.

If Keiji keeps coming back, he tells himself that it’s for the exceptional coffee and not the honeysuckle, crisp woodland grass, or even the way a certain someone brightens every time.

* * *

“No, Bokuto-san. We cannot have a sleepover.”

“Akaaaashi,” Bokuto whines. “Why not?”

 _Because I don’t sleep_.

Instead, Keiji says, “It’s untimely to do so the day before exams start.”

“But! We’ll be able to study! Together!” At Keiji’s impassive expression, Bokuto tries another tactic, one that Keiji knows is coming and he won’t be able to resist, because Bokuto is smarter than he looks. “I can help you with _math_. How ‘bout that, Akaaashi?” he offers, waggling his very prominent eyebrows.

“We can study in the library after school like usual, Bokuto-san, especially as there’s no afternoon practice for the week.”

Bokuto pouts, slumping so that his chin rests on top of Keiji’s desk. Keiji turns back to his notes, still trying to copy what the teacher had written on the board with little success. The words have been a lot more jumbled than usual, cartwheeling and dancing and twirling around, and Keiji pinches the bridge of his nose to ease a pulsing headache.

Bokuto looks at him worriedly. “Um, do you…?”

“I’m fine, Bokuto-san. But thank you for the concern.”

There’s a stretch of silence in which Keiji manages to jot down a particularly difficult sentence and Bokuto keeps playing with the pads of his fingers. His agitation makes Keiji a bit tetchy.

“Is it because of me?” Bokuto mutters out before Keiji has the chance to reassure him first. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”

“No,” Keiji says immediately. “I admit that you’re loud and an enigma. But I would not have been with you all along if I had thought of you in such way.”

Which is Keiji’s equal to, _Of course not; we’re friends_. And Bokuto knows it, lightens up and beams at Keiji.

For a short moment, before he looks thoughtful again. “But if it isn’t me, then why? I mean, your house is the safest one this side of Tokyo!”

“It’s not,” Keiji corrects, flipping over to a blank page. “While it’s warded securely, it’s still home to a large family of onmyouji and is therefore a hazardous location.”

Bokuto is not deterred. In fact, his smile only broadens. “That’s totally okay. It’s not like I’m scared of ghosts or anything, and I can take care of myself just fine.”

He looks at Keiji with that resolute spirit in his gaze, and Keiji can feel what wry comeback he has in store sputtering out.

“Besides, whatever happens, you can protect me, right?”

When a classmate calls for Bokuto and he has to leave early, Keiji closes his notebook and pulls out slips of paper from his schoolbag. He begins to draw, charms and magic and all, just for Bokuto.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (There's a problem with the coffee machine and two sleep-drunken staffs do not make good repairpersons. That, or Keiji is a superhuman who writes thesis really fast.)


	2. Royalty/Bodyguard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Brief and mild descriptions of tinnitus (ringing in the ears) and a panic attack. 
> 
> Though these are very short, if you want to skip them: jump from 'The buzzing...' (for tinnitus) or 'His heart shot up...' (for the panic attack) to 'Half a minute...'

“Commander Akaashi, this is the painter, Bokuto Koutarou.”

Jolted out his thoughts, fumbling with satchels hefty with canvas and art supplies, Koutarou hurried into a bow—a little too low, perhaps—and almost tripped over his heels as the combined weight he carried tipped him off balance. Inwardly, he thanked the fleeting years he’d had on the racetracks for the strength in his calves that saved him from doing so in front of probably the most intimidating person in the kingdom.

Akaashi Keiji, 5th Prince of Owl’s Valleys and War Commander of the greatest division in the army, did not tilt his chin as he looked down at Koutarou. His gaze was not conceited, however, as some of the castle’s residents had been, but it bored into him no less. Koutarou could only glimpse at those coal-black eyes for so long before he had to school his sight back to the indigo carpet below.

The lieutenant cleared his throat and Koutarou realized he’d been still for too long. He straightened up with a jerk, arms stiff and taut at his sides, staring ahead—but some imperceptible force snapped his head to the side a split-second later, and he let out a yelp.

“My apologies,” a deep voice said, flat and melodious at once. Koutarou had the urge to check, even though it was obviously Akaashi and there was no guarantee he wouldn’t break Koutarou’s neck next time. “I am not used to this. I promise I will not do that again, if you have understood and fully agreed to the contract.”

Koutarou nodded, holding his nose and trying to catch every drop of blood. He did not want to know if anyone would hold him responsible for a stain in the carpet.

“Well, then,” the lieutenant said, and the casual tone surprised Koutarou, “I’ll be outside. Do holler if you need me, Commander.”

The ache in his neck reminded him not to look, but Koutarou wished he could see Akaashi’s face right now. Was it calm and composed, as he had always been known for? Indignant at the bold way he was addressed? Maybe even a fond smile at what might have been an amiable remark.

In a fit of daring courage, he glanced at Akaashi again and this time he was allowed to take in more. Perhaps more than anyone not sworn to the Royal family had ever had the chance.

His skin wasn’t porcelain, as the rumors presumed, but a slight tan, more tawny beige than bronze. His hair was closer to the darkest shade of navy blue possible, but still not quite black. Certainly not as inky as his eyes, which were pitch-black and cavernous, not unlike the depthless chasm that encircled Owl’s Valleys itself and petrified any intruders, those deemed unworthy by the Crown.

There was a phlegmatic temperament to them, though. Heavy lids, a bored yet knowing demeanor that made him look like a sleepy storm. Gusts of harsh wind that could surge into a ruthless hurricane if he ever wanted to.

And he had. Koutarou was standing in the vicinity of the man who had led extraordinary soldiers to wars, pried victory after victory from the unrelenting hands of dictators and barbaric rebels. Who had saved the kingdom many times, and would continue to do so.

Who had never let strangers _truly_ see his face.

Koutarou couldn’t grasp why Akaashi hid it, because it was beautiful. Every inch of it _just was_ , all the way from the speckles on his cheeks, down to his willowy neck and the strong, lissome curves of his shoulders. His figure was well-hidden beneath elegant, stately clothes, and Koutarou tried to dampen any further notions of it with admiration and mental sketches of that face as he walked up to the easel and started arranging his supplies.

He was extra careful to not spill any paint or balance his tools precariously as he normally would in his own craft room. It wasn’t the most comfortable for Koutarou, changing his well-ingrained routine, but he couldn’t remember if the agreement had mentioned anything about accidental defacing of the surroundings.

Pulling out the large canvas, Koutarou took a peek behind it as he situated it on the easel. Akaashi had settled himself on a plush chair, goldenrod with trimmings of emerald mint, and was staring at the curtains drawn closed over the humongous windows, his brows slightly pinched.

“How long will this take?” Akaashi asked.

Koutarou returned to fiddling with everything except the thought of easing that frown. “I, um… Every piece is different, and I paint in a _lot_ of sittings, so there’s really not a definite time estimate. But if you feel like you’re done for the day I can always come back later. We don’t have to do this in one go.”

Akaashi nodded.

Satisfied with the placements, Koutarou let out a pleased hum, and said, “So…how do you want it to be? The contract said a close-up portrait but if you don’t like that I can compromise a bit.”

For the first time, Akaashi’s eyes met his. “And are you not afraid of the outcome if you stray from the King’s wishes?”

Koutarou pursed his lips. “I said _a bit._ Even no one should be that fussy, right? Not that I’m calling the King fussy or anything! Just…anyway. And can’t you vouch for me? Say that you threatened me, or something.”

He tried not to crack a grin when Akaashi’s scowl took on a more conspiring look. “It could work, especially if time has already been spent. As long as the result is there and adequate I suppose the King would not bother to have it done again.”

“All right then!” Koutarou concluded with more enthusiasm than he’d expected from himself. One thing that helped him ease into new situations was having someone else to scheme with; he and Tetsurou were inseparable for this very reason. “Any special request?”

He added more inquiring curiosity to it than necessary, because he _did_ want to know. Why would someone like Akaashi conceal so much?

But Akaashi only answered with, “I would like my line of sight to be trained somewhere off to the side. That is all.”

Koutarou’s head was whirring with speculations and wild theories as he sat himself on the stool. But once he dipped his fingers into the paints, once he smeared the first splashes of blue and gold on bleak canvas, they faded into the quiet recess of his mind. Just the drone and rumble of the colors, now, their quiet commentary as he put in more details, swirled and mixed more colors, and daubed more lines and smudges.

He found himself muttering back. _Hmm, turquoise, you want to be here? Okay. Oh, and lavender wants to be with red! It’s fine, you guys can come closer. And yellow, I get it, you can stop complaining now…_

Koutarou had finished the outline and was wiping his hands on a kerchief when Akaashi spoke up, “That was unusual.” His tone was less flat, tinged with the soft-risen timbre of interest. “Sketching with paint on your fingertips. Most artists do with simple charcoal first.”

“When I played with paints as a child I’d been messy and used my hands only. Later on I couldn’t afford brushes, so I just stuck with it.” Koutarou gave Akaashi his widest, most teeth-revealing smile he risked yet. Akaashi didn’t reciprocate, but the fact that he wasn’t frowning at it either was enough to kick Koutarou’s heart up several flights of stairs.

He had brushes since he’d managed to sell his works, though, so he picked one up and contemplated the now mottled canvas.

“You were talking under your breath,” Akaashi said. “Was that some form of spell?”

“Hmm? No. At least, I don’t think so? I’d been told that I don’t have a shred of magic in me. Conversing with the colors always helps, for some reason.” Koutarou shrugged. “Sometimes they point me in the right direction, too.”

Akaashi furrowed his brows, though he looked more musing than displeased. “That is…intriguing.”

Koutarou huffed. “My best friend says I’m weird. I know he means special, though; he’s just too shy to admit it.”

The hush that settled over felt awkward. Noises and commotions were a constant in Koutarou’s life, and he’d throw fond insults back and forth with Tetsurou and Yukie or sing gibberish just to fill in the space. Even as he worked and his focus jostled other things into the background, faint traces of them always remained, evidence that even beyond his convoluted thoughts the world still went on.

Here, though, Koutarou was too aware of the unfamiliarity around him, and of the very beautiful but also very scary company. He didn’t believe that Akaashi would curse or maim him if he so much as made a single mistake, as the whispers passed about the dingy bars he’d visited would have him expect. Akaashi seemed to be the patient type, preferring to wait, observe, and not flaunt his deeds.

If Koutarou learned anything from spending time around the laconic Kozume Kenma, Tetsurou’s spouse, was that no one like that was to be underestimated.

He liked to think that their little plot against the King meant something. A sort of partner-in-crime kinship, maybe.

But then…he had always taken things too earnestly. Clutched at words and the inflections in them so that they mattered more than they were really intended to be. It was the spark that lighted and fueled Koutarou’s endless fire, his boundless energy, but also the rushing tides that smothered it.

The buzzing in his ears flared up, finally noticing that there was nothing for it to compete against. _This_ was one of the reasons Koutarou liked noises so much. Meaningless and annoying to others as they might be, they aid in muffling this incessant din. Reminded him of the world that existed outside of it, pulled him out before it could drown him.

“Why don’t you like to show your face?” Koutarou blurted out before he could think better of it. His own voice sounded garbled to him, overwhelmed by the hissing and crackling. His hands had started to tremble, but now they were deadly still as the dread of what he’d said sank in.

His heart shot up and lodged in his throat, blocking his airway. His insides were churning. He felt queasy, and over it all he heard those words: _You’ve messed up again_.

Then, _Why the fuck do you care about_ everything.

Between trying to breathe and struggling against the whirlpool that was dragging him under, it seemed like hours yet nothing had passed at once when a piercing, _Bokuto_ , thundered throughout the room. Koutarou flinched, nearly sliding off of his seat, and he grabbed at whatever in front of him for balance. He anchored his feet, then, leaning lightly on the easel, though his knuckles whitened from the strain of his grip.

Half a minute went by before Koutarou felt grounded enough to pull away with a shaky exhale. Running his palm down his face, he breathed in once, deep, and turned to look at Akaashi.

Akaashi stood beside him. He had a hand hovering by Koutarou’s temple, but then it fell back down to his side.

“I’m sorry, but I had to resort to a spell when you could not respond.” His expression was inscrutable, though it might just be Koutarou’s still-dazed mind. “I hope it was not too intrusive.”

Koutarou shook his head. “Nu-uh.” He tried for a grin, as crooked as it might end up be. “Thanks for that.” Talk. Talking was good, masked the buzzing only he could hear.

Akaashi swiveled on his heels, striding toward the fireplace. Koutarou watched curiously as he browsed through the caskets on the mantelpiece. He turned back to Koutarou, showing him an ample assortment of incense sticks and small bundles of herbs.

“Would you like to light some up?” Akaashi offered. “It could help make you more comfortable.”

Koutarou blinked at him. “Uh… Bergamot and pine-musk, if you have those.”

Soon enough, the familiar scents permeated the air; Koutarou inhaled each gulp of it gratefully.

“Thanks,” he said with full candor. He bent down to retrieve the things he had knocked over, thankful for the lack of blemish they left behind.

Akaashi went back to his chair, brushing off phantom dusts on his thighs as he sat down. “It was no trouble.”

“Do you mind if I talk out loud?” Koutarou asked after he put everything back in its place. “Or sing—or maybe just hum. Me and silence don’t get along.”

“If you wish to.”

So Koutarou did. He talked about his train of thoughts on every bit of the portrait’s progress, his replies to the colors’ chatter and arguments—how black kept yelling at orange, who refused to stop bouncing around, and how silver-gray and earth-brown got along a little _too_ well today. He talked about the impressions he had when he stepped into the castle grounds, the splendor and glory in its vast gardens, and, most importantly, the animals playing in them.

“I mean, I’d never seen an Army owl up-close before, and—by the gods—they're _fucking_ huge. And majestic. And beautiful!” Koutarou was quite giddy as he shared this memorable event, so much so that at first he didn’t register the curse he’d uttered. “Um, they’re so ethereal, and I _really_ want to pet them, even though I know they could rip my head off in one swoop,” he continued when Akaashi displayed no sign of revulsion, each word easier than the last.

Akaashi hummed in acknowledgment. They’d decided that Akaashi could be loose with his pose as Koutarou was still working on the basic; the more serious be-still-don’t-move-a-muscle would come later. Akaashi chose to read, a large, ancient book in his lap, his fingers ghosting over the page he was on.

“They are,” was the first thing he said in a long while. Koutarou listened with rapt attention. “They are a dignified and noble creature, Army owls. Although, despite the name, they do not belong to the army; we can tame but not conquer them.”

“Yep!” Koutarou agreed avidly. “I’d love to play with them and all, but keeping wild creatures as pets feels wrong. I don’t like the idea of tethering them to one place, to one person. They’d have families of their own, right? The whole Valley is their home, after all.”

He didn’t know how much time had drifted by, and he just opened his mouth to start on the hilarious story of how he met Yukie when Akaashi closed the book with an audible but gentle _thud_.

“I think that is enough for today.” He stood up, walked over to the row of bookshelves and slipped the book back between its brethren. “You can leave your instruments here; the servants were already notified not to intrude.”

Akaashi's eyes were on him the entire time Koutarou was gathering his stuff. They left little prickles of excitement instead of fear this time.

“When should I come back?” he asked as they made their way to the doors.

“In a fortnight,” Akaashi said, and Koutarou’s delight immediately dropped, snuffed out like a pinched candlelight. The shift must have been obvious because Akaashi tilted his head and added, “For this once. After that, the following intervals will be two or three days.”

And just like that, the flame was alight again. When taking into account all his personality and quirks, Koutarou was in no way simple, but he admitted that he _was_ a simpleton when it came to the things that got him pumped up. Some hours every few days with one of the most feared men in the kingdom would not thrill most people, but while Akaashi could be scary sometimes he was not terrifying to Koutarou.

He knew, now, that the caskets Akaashi kept on the mantelpiece were dedicated to storing incense sticks, aromatic herbs, and scented candles. From the size of the collection, and from what Akaashi had vaguely hinted in their short exchanges, it seemed to be a hobby of his. Which was kind of cute. He also had tons of books, and despite not liking to show his face he was _not_ afraid to look at Koutarou in the eye.

Speaking of which.

“Why don’t you like to show your face?” Koutarou was more careful and calculated with voicing it than in his last attempt. At least, he tried to be. “Not that you have to talk about it! I mean. I can stop mentioning it, if you want me to. But it’s really, really pretty. Your face.” He gestured at the last part helplessly.

To his surprise, Akaashi’s lips quirked up in what might be a diminutive smile.

No. Definitely a smirk.

“We don’t have to do this in one go, don’t we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I hate this one. Judge it harshly.
> 
> Jazz: *points out every nice detail* *excited capslock* *exclamation points* 
> 
> Me: *blushes all the way to posting this*


	3. A Steampunk-y Fairy Tale (with Time Travel)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bankrupt watchmaker Bokuto stumbles upon one weary time-traveling Akaashi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Tags: Time Travel, Steampunk + Fairy Tale Elements, Ambiguous But (Kinda) Important Cameo

At the tender age of twenty-six, alone and exhausted and _hunted_ , Akaashi Keiji declares that the Fates are conspiring against him.

Though far from the first time he makes such a statement known with a string of curses trailing it, this one he means with his entire being, all twenty-six years of it. But as he runs and runs and _runs_ , the sprawling city that had been his home turning its back on him—a Timekeeper _still_ chasing him down, wearing him to the bones—Keiji can only flip a mental middle finger at the Fates; he barely has any breath left when he finally comes to a stop at a cul-de-sac for a few fleeting seconds of rest.

He shuffles to the side for a wall to lean on, relishing gulps of oxygen while also being conscious to stay silent. Hands braced on his knees, Keiji tips his head up for the sole purpose of keeping his sights on the horizon, _ever a constant through all timelines and what-ifs_ , and instead finds a mugshot of himself staring back.

(Well, maybe Kuroo was right about Keiji being ridiculously photogenic. Even on wanted posters.)

 _Clank_. Something heavy lands on the fire escape close by, a jarring _creak_ of metal scraping metal as its weathered frames sag from the weight. Keiji catches a glimpse of silvery-white hair and a bright yet mischievous smile as he sprints out of the alley. In his haste, he bumps into more people on their own morning rush (“Criminal! Damn Timekeeper better do his job!”) but he just runs, and runs. Footsteps on pavement, sidewalks, and then on dirt, grass, crackling crisp leaves and brambles, and then back on asphalt. Shoves his hand into his jacket, clasps the dead pocketwatch safely tucked inside like it’s a lifeline, and prays to no one but himself.

_Take me there. Take me ahead. Take me th—_

The Timekeeper's fingers brush the nape of his neck—a chillingly soft touch, a gentle caress—and then Keiji’s gone.

* * *

Keiji wakes up to the panoramic view of a dusk sky, all contrasting blue and orange hues that seamlessly blend to paint nostalgia of yet another day passed.

He feels the stiffness of concrete on his back, deduces that he’s lying on a busy sidewalk by the echoes of hurried steps around him, and closes his eyes, a forearm on his face to block the light even more. His body is flickering out, if how he can suddenly see flashes of the sky again is any indication, and Keiji inhales deep only to breathe it all out at once; at least the pedestrians won’t notice him for a while, subconsciously circling around instead of trampling him.

Someone steps on his stomach.

Keiji chokes at the abrupt flare of pain. The foot pulls back immediately and he rolls to his side, hissing as the movement jostles the wounded spot. The offender crouches down and fusses over Keiji, grabbing at his jacket and hoisting him up with surprising strength as he recites the manifesto of a guilty, worried party.

“—sorry!” Keiji hears the man yell, clearer, now, since his ears have stopped ringing from the shock. His brash voice is lilted with sincerity, and his deep-amber eyes bore into Keiji’s own dark ones. Keiji has to blink several times to push the intense gaze back. “Didn’t see you there! Hey, what’cha doing just lying around, though—”

He still has his hands on Keiji and as genuine as he seems, Keiji politely pries them off. When he notices that spectators are starting to gather and _watch_ —not just the man _but Keiji, too_ —Keiji curses. Quickly scanning his surroundings, he thinks of the ways and paths and gaps he can go through, the doors and passages of time, every _road less traveled_ for strays like him—

A hand clamps around his wrist just as he pivots around. Keiji turns back to glare at the man, _a warning_ , ready to use force if warranted, but what greets him is a face gleaming with anticipation instead of malice.

The man’s lips move, form the words _I know you_ , something that seems like it was meant to convince himself more than anything. But right now Keiji does not have the privilege to mull over the possibility that he’s screwed up, landed in a timeline not of his own, where strangers—

A grin takes over the man’s face. Despite the sparse seconds between them, Keiji instinctively decides that it’s not teasing, or condescending, or anything of those lines. It is the smile of someone who realizes a key to the secret workings of _something sought after_ , who has just found a treasure the world cannot ever hope to steal.

(Keiji knows this, because once upon a time he’d seen the same excitement in himself, the same thrill as he collected treasures from every moment time had to offer, back before anything needed to change.)

Keiji hates that look.

He wrenches his wrist from the man’s grasp and runs yet again.

* * *

(Not away, though. Never away.)

* * *

_On quite a mundane Tuesday, the White Witch of the Crows walks into Koutarou’s humble shop with a pocketwatch cradled in his hands._

_Koutarou stares. And stares._

_The Witch smiles, a bright and mischievous curve to his lips, a cheeriness to the crinkles around his eyes, and says, “When you fix this, you will end one life and perhaps start another anew.”_

_When Koutarou manages to pick his jaw off the floor and blink the surreality away, the doorbell has already tinkled again, a caress of gentle breeze carrying the scent of rust and oil the only mark of such encounter._

* * *

As he runs, the winds billowing against him and by his sides all at once, Keiji senses a particularly cool touch on the nape of his neck. When he comes to yet another fleeting rest, he skims his fingers lightly over the skin damp with sweat, sees that it’s just oil, black as tar but strangely smelling of rust, and blames it on this strange too-mechanical world he's stumbled upon as he continues to move.

(Forward. Always so, because Keiji dares not intrude on the past and passed.)

* * *

At the streets where a disputed and weary time-traveler crash landed, a bankrupt watchmaker stands astonished still, eyes dumbfoundedly wide and mouth agape. Finally shaking off such awe, Koutarou just looks at his hand with a pout for a moment, lamenting the missing warmth, and then catches a glint of reflected sunset rays upon cracked pavement.

At Koutarou's touch, a worn and aged pocketwatch, long since stopped ticking, whirs to life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Bokuto is actually a _clock_ maker which demands a different skillset from watchmaking but that's a story for another time.)
> 
> Is this a prologue to something more?? Maybe. This was written in a haze because I'm having a bad writer's block and just trying to write makes me wanna cry. (And did you guys catch the cameo/repetitions? This would've been even _more_ confusing without it.) 
> 
> I hope you all are enjoying this piece anyway ^^

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first venture into the BokuAka dynamic and to be honest I am _terrified_. 
> 
> So. Um, let me know if you like it, or what you think of it in general. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Kudos, comments, and reblogs are always loved.
> 
> [tumblr](http://astersandstuffs.tumblr.com/)
> 
> NOTE: I tagged this as 'Completed' because each chapter stands on its own. However, there may be updates in the future as I search for ideas to fit the prompts.


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